


The Ides of March

by TheLastWhiteRose



Category: Historical RPF, Julius Caesar - Shakespeare
Genre: Angst, Boys Kissing, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, M/M, sinning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-01 19:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16290533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLastWhiteRose/pseuds/TheLastWhiteRose
Summary: A lazy smile formed on Caesar’s face, an expression of unadulterated love and undiluted affection. It tore at Marcus’ heart, laid claim to his entrails and ripped them straight from where they lay. It didn’t help that Caesar’s face highlighted his already prevalent good looks. The perfect Roman man, with strong features, a penchant for leadership, and a natural charisma. Rome’s deadliest weapons, all infused in one man. And that was what Marcus feared. For one day, his love for Caesar to trump his ever-shrinking duty to his people, for him to fall so blindly into the depths of love that he was willing to commit atrocities for him. Better to cut it off short, then, before he became a man he scarcely recognized.





	The Ides of March

**Author's Note:**

> So, we’re reading “The Tragedy of Julius Caesar” and I’m edgy. Enjoy!
> 
> Alternatively titled: I miss my ex and I’m sad.

Sunlight streamed in through the slightly askew curtains, but were thwarted by Caesar’s imposing body from reaching his eyes. For that, Marcus was grateful. It gave him more time to savor this moment, to relish in the feeling of being Caesar’s, and Caesar’s alone.

For it was the nightingale that sang, not the lark. The streaks that filled the sky were not sunlight, but some meteor, some fantastic display of divine intervention, cascading through Caesar’s chambers. Marcus tucked his head deeper within the confines of Caesar’s arms, willing time to stop, for nothing else but the contents of the room to exist, just for a day. Enough time for him to explain to Julius that he loved him, that the only thing he loved more than him was the people of Rome. 

To be one man caught between his two greatest loves: his affection for the most powerful man Rome had seen in centuries, and his duty to the people he represented. His ancestors had founded the very republic he stood upon, had fought for the freedom to elect representatives to support the people’s needs, yet the thought of giving all of that up was ever so tempting in order to spend the rest of his life loving Caesar. 

Eventually, Marcus pries himself from Caesar’s embrace. Portia would be wondering where he was by now, and he had, undoubtedly, had unsavory business to contend to before the conspiracy unfolded. Nevertheless, he did not have the heart to move far from the bed as he watched Julius stir, then pry open one eye.

A lazy smile formed on Caesar’s face, an expression of unadulterated love and undiluted affection. It tore at Marcus’ heart, laid claim to his entrails and ripped them straight from where they lay. It didn’t help that Caesar’s face highlighted his already prevalent good looks. The perfect Roman man, with strong features, a penchant for leadership, and a natural charisma. Rome’s deadliest weapons, all infused in one man. And that was what Marcus feared. For one day, his love for Caesar to trump his ever-shrinking duty to his people, for him to fall so blindly into the depths of love that he was willing to commit atrocities for him. Better to cut it off short, then, before he became a man he scarcely recognized.

“Be still, my love,” said Marcus, tearing his gaze from Caesar’s unwavering dark eyed stare. Any longer, and he would’ve succumbed to any desire Caesar had. Tempting, those eyes were, just like the honey coated words he spun. “I fear I must leave you before Calphurnia wakes or Portia stirs, lest your various wives and mistresses suspect something.” 

Julius let out an exaggerated sigh. “Must you go into the sea of sharks and vipers? Wouldn’t it be better to just stay with me, in the warm confines of our shared bed?”

“Were I any weaker willed, my love, I would spend the rest of my life in bed with you,” bantered Marcus. He made an effort to grab his tunic, thought not in earnest, knowing Caesar would take the opportunity to tug him over himself. 

“Stay, oh Noble Brutus. Leave the hyenas to squabble amongst themselves, left without a lion to make the first action.” Caesar placed a hand against Marcus’ cheek. 

Marcus indulged himself, ghosting his lips against Caesar’s before gently, ever so gently claiming them. The kiss was slow, languid, and it utterly consumed the two of them. When they parted, both were out of breath, so utterly taken with one another that everything besides Caesar and Brutus ceased to exist for a moment. 

“I suppose I shall settle with that, then.” Caesar tapped his thumb against Marcus’ lips. “A souvenir, of sorts, from the great noblemen Marcus Brutus himself.”

Oh, how accurate Caesar would prove to be. A souvenir to the grave.

* * *

It was time. Marcus stood stoically, tensely awaiting his belove-no, his enemy’s arrival. Cassius stood at the helm of the group, armed with the silver dagger they had decided upon beforehand. The dagger was slender and regal, truly the only thing worthy of killing a dictator. 

Marcus, too, had acquired one, though it lay limply against his side instead of being nervously tapped against, in the case of Cinna, or eagerly awaited for, if he were to look at Cassius. It was depressing, to say the least, to then see Caesar throw open the doors to the senate house, unarmed, and looking more than amiable to settle things out diplomatically. 

They advanced, like a pack of hyenas, but Caesar had been wrong about one thing: Marcus wasn’t the lion, Cassius was. He had always been, and Marcus had been his pawn, his hyena to control. Cassius made a gesture to embrace Caesar, and Caesar, ever the diplomat, returned it. Hidden to him, but not to the rest of the Senate, Cassius’ blade unsheathed itself, plunging into the depths of dictator blood.

Blows descended onto Caesar like rain pummeling the cool earth. He fought, like the warrior he had been, but the sixty or so of them, Marcus’ comrades, overpowered him. Stab after stab, wound after wound, his defenses began to wind down, before he was blindly thrashing at them, too weak to do anything but those futile efforts. 

“Brutus should have the last stab,” said Cassius, stopping the senators from charging once more. “It’s only fair for Caesar’s favorite to be the one to slay him. Have at him, Brutus.”

Despite him having his own, Cassius’ knife was forced into Marcus’ hand. He held it, quivering, and approached him. Caesar, whose eyes had been closed as he awaited for death, opened leisurely, as if awaiting a lover. In a sense, he was. 

“Et tu, Brute?”

“Ego, Cesarum.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, kudos and comments are appreciated!


End file.
